


The Right of the King

by RobberBaroness



Series: Darkest Timeline [9]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Captivity, F/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22282027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobberBaroness/pseuds/RobberBaroness
Summary: Mordred finally has Guinevere in his power.
Relationships: Guinevere/Arthur Pendragon, Guinevere/Mordred (Arthurian)
Series: Darkest Timeline [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598476
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	The Right of the King

Excalibur was a beautiful and heavy sword no matter the circumstances, but there was no flash when Mordred removed it from his sheath. He ran his finger along the edge- dull. It could not have killed four of his men in quick succession as the survivors claimed; at least, he could not have done so.

“Worthless piece of trash,” he muttered. “This can only mean one thing.”

Mordred’s men looked at each other, and he scowled in anger at the words he read in their face- _this man is not the true King of the Britons._

“It means,” he said, placing emphasis on the second word, “that my father is still alive!” He returned the sword to his sheath and paced about the room in the abbey. “Find him,” he said, “and my brother’s wives, if you can. They should still have some value in them. But Arthur is the first priority. Bring him alive or bring me his head, but don’t leave him for dead like the fools you were last time!”

He eyed one door in the abbey.

“At least you managed to bring me one thing I asked for…”

***

They’d treated Guinevere well enough since bringing her to the abbey in the woods. She could not especially blame the monks for allowing Mordred’s men to take over the place; even men of God must fear death. There had only been one threat to her person since arriving there - a knight calling himself Bertholt had spoken of how he’d known a wench like her once, a red haired beauty who held herself above the common soldiery. She’d even been called Gwen, he said, when that description itself had failed to get the desired reaction out of her. He could speak of how she’d screamed all he wanted, Guinevere remained apathetic and dead-eyed to his threats. Mordred wanted her, that much was clear. None of his men would dare go beyond threats.

And if they did, what did it matter? Mordred frightened her. Lancelot frightened her. Anyone else was just a man.

For company, she had herself and the captive monks. The monks were amiable enough, ever apologetic, keeping her occupied with innocuous chatter about scripture in a sympathetic effort to keep her mind off her situation.

But she still had plenty of time to reflect on her own, and one of the topics that frequently crossed her mind, no matter how hard she tried to push it aside, was whether she had invited Lancelot to attack her, whether it was something she had driven him to through her own unconscious actions.

She pondered the question at last, plainly and coldly, and settled on the one thing she could truly accuse herself of.

She had almost kissed him when they’d been locked up in Maleagant’s castle. He was handsome and brave and she had been convinced that she would either be raped or murdered by Maleagant before long, and Lancelot had held her and promised to save her from either fate, and she had wanted some loving connection before her own destruction. And then she had thought of the possibility, however small, that she might see Arthur again, and she had resisted the temptation. She had lusted in her heart, and had never acted upon it.

There. That was what she had to reproach herself with. For all the guilt she’d carried with her since Lancelot’s assault, when seen in the cold light of day it was a venial sin. When she gave confession to one of the monks, he absolved her without even assigning penance. This thing that had been tormenting her, the thought that she had somehow brought Lancelot’s sin upon herself, now seemed almost comical. When compared to the sins she had seen, the momentary desire of a frightened woman seemed more pathetic than lascivious.

Whatever Mordred had in store for her, at least she would face it with clarity of mind. No matter what he said to her. No matter what he did to her. And no matter what he said about Arthur.

Arthur was not dead until she saw a body. Arthur had ruled before, and he would rule again.

There was the heavy sound of locks being unbarred, and she steeled herself in her seat for whatever might come. The sound of the locks turned to the creak of the door being pushed open, and there he was.

Mordred. Her dark haired, handsome stepson in a dusty black cloak and a golden circlet. She did not see Arthur’s tenderness on his face or even Lancelot’s desperation, but a quiet look of triumph.

“My dearest Guinevere. My condolences again on your recent loss. If there is anything I can do to make you more comfortable in this dismal place, please let me know.”

Her loss. That sniveling liar. He’d lied about Arthur’s death once before, why should she believe him now?

“Gawain and Ragnelle?” she asked quietly.

Mordred shook his head.

“Your own brother and his wife…”

“I claim responsibility for Gawain’s death, yes. But I never meant for the fair Ragnelle to die. Breuse Sans Pitie was known for keeping the women he took, not using and then killing them. It was she who made the situation violent.”

Guinevere dug her nails into the arms of her chair so hard as to splinter it. She didn’t mind the pain- focusing on that was all that kept her from crying. She would not cry in front of Mordred ever again.

“I am not fond of violence,” Mordred said. “I find it necessary, of course, but in bad taste- perhaps that’s why I was never much of a knight. I am not Lancelot.” He looked her directly in the eye as he said it. Guinevere met his gaze coldly- he would not see her flinch, no matter what he said. “I am sure you understand my meaning,” he went on. “We both know how our evening must end, but there is no need for it to be unpleasant. I am a gentleman, if you can believe such a man still exists.”

“I believe you will do as you will no matter what I say. You are the king, or so I am told.” She would not cry, she would not flinch. “But I will not pretend to let you seduce me.”

“A shame. This could have been a perfectly pleasant evening for both of us. You might have even enjoyed it. But if you think I am unprepared to play the villain, you are very much mistaken.”

He took a step towards her, and despite her resolve, Guinevere shrank back in her seat.

“Would you like to hear a story, my love?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“This is a story my mother told me when I was young. Not a very pleasant story, but one she thought it was important for me to hear. I was born on May Day, and our home was so blessed as to be visited personally by the king and his royal magician for my arrival. King Lot knew I was not his, though he did not know whose I might be, but he held mother in no ill will- he had his mistresses, she had her gentlemen, and she had already given him four sons who resembled him. Well, three at least- Gaheris strongly resembled King Pellinore, which was deeply ironic when he was the only one to later take the blood feud against him seriously. But we all strive to do what we think is our duty.

Mother, of course, was out of sorts at the time, but even in her bedchamber she thought she could hear an argument- the words ‘ill-omened’ in one voice, the word ‘never’ in another.

She was a strong woman who had survived childbirth before, and she was up and about shortly after I came into the world. Taking her infant, she told her ladies that she was going to take in the night air, and show her son the shores of the sea, the land he would dwell in, the world that was to be his.

In truth, she did not know why she said those things to her ladies, nor why she wished to walk along the cold sea strand with her infant child. It was as if a voice had commanded her to do so, overridden her own will with a command- take the child to the sea shore. It was faint at first, but as she walked it grew stronger.

And it grew crueler- take the child down to the sea shore, it said, and drown him. A mother’s love is difficult even for magic to conquer, and so the voice had to urge her onward- he will be death of us all, it said. He will betray his father. He will destroy a kingdom. He must be sent to heaven now, while his soul was still innocent.

Mother said she had just placed me in the water when she felt Arthur’s hands around her waist, pulling her back. She fought him in her trance, but he was stronger- he overcame her, and saved the child. He would not tell her how he knew she would be down by the sea with her child on the eve of May Day, but Merlin vanished from court on the same night. It would be years before he was officially forgiven and allowed back- forgiven for what, no one would say

Mother was many things, but she was not mad and she was not a child-killer- she would not even allow us to be beaten. If she said a magical voice compelled her to nearly kill me, I believe her.

Now, my love, what do you think the lesson of this little story is?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Guinevere said stoically.

“The lesson mother thought it taught was that Arthur was a good king who loved me and saved my life, and that I should be grateful to him for it for the rest of my days. But there was another lesson mother didn’t notice. She did not think I might have focused on the things Merlin said to her while she was under his command- that I would be the death of them all, that I would betray my father, that I would destroy a kingdom. Destiny is a heavy burden for a child to bear.”

He circled behind her chair, placing his hands upon her arms. His voice came from above her, still soft and gentle as ever.

“Gawain was destined to be a hero. Agravain, Gaheris, Gareth- they were the lucky ones, free to be whatever they desired. But I knew from the time I heard that story that I was destined to be the villain in someone else’s, and as I grew, I resolved that if it must be so, I would be the most fearsome villain I could be. And I would take whatever I wanted in doing so.”

He ran his hands down her arms, not holding her down but simply feeling her shivering body and the skin of her hands.

“And can you blame me for wanting you? At times, I envied my father his possession of you more than even the kingdom or the sword. You are mine by right of conquest now, but it was true what I said before- I would rather have you without violence. Name anything you want, anything within my power, and it will be yours.”

“I want my husband back,” she said. She’d hoped it would wound him to hear, but Mordred only smiled.

“You have your husband. I assure you, women have been married over their own objections before. Torture, starvation, threats towards their loved ones- how hard do you think it would be for me to find sweet Lyonors after I’ve found you? I sold one of my brothers' wives, why should I not personally be the one to take a second before I give her to my men? But I don’t want Lyonors. I want you.”

He walked about to face her, his eyes looking down upon her with hunger.

“Oh, Guinevere. You drive men to distraction. Arthur, Maleagant, Lancelot, myself. How can any man truly be blamed for going mad when they think of your sweet face?” Mordred’s hand trailed down across her cheek, and Guinevere could not repress a shudder, try as she might. It was the gentility of the act that disgusted her- if he had struck her, at least it would have been an honest blow and she could have spit in his face in defiance. Somehow a soft caress unnerved her so much she could hardly act in response.

“Please,” she said before she could stop herself. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Why should I hurt my betrothed? Come now. My hair is darker, my frame is leaner, but you cannot say you see nothing of Arthur in me. You cannot say you never looked upon me with desire.”

“You were my husband’s bastard. I pitied you.”

At those words, the look of smug assurance on Mordred’s face twisted into one of fury. He seized Guinevere by her shoulders and shoved her from her chair down onto the floor.

“One does not pity a king!” he snarled, and then he was upon her. He kissed her brutally, and then his hands were all over her. She felt her dress tear down the middle, and then Mordred’s hands were on her flesh, crushing her bare skin beneath the ripped bodice. Then he moved again and a hand was up her skirt, pawing at her thighs, despite Guinevere’s kicking. Unlike Lancelot, he had not bothered to gag her, and Guinevere screamed- not out of any expectation that it would bring help, but out of the hope that it would vex her tormenter.

Mordred pushed her face to the floor.

“That,” he said, “was a very foolish thing to do.” She could breathe again when he removed his hands from her body, but redoubled her efforts to fight when she saw it was to undo his own fastenings.

She closed her eyes and tried to think of her first time, a dalliance in the woods with what she thought was a charming peasant boy, calling herself a merchant’s daughter named Genevieve, hoping that losing her virginity would ruin her for her intended arranged marriage. When they both learned the other’s true identity, both of their impending arranged marriages had suddenly seemed less dreadful.

But Mordred was too rough with her to pretend she was back at home with Arthur. Arthur would never have hurt her. He would have died before allowing it to happen.

Struggling furiously, Guinevere seized hold of Mordred’s sword hilt in desperation and pulled-

And then there was a blinding flash and everything changed. Both Guinevere and Mordred screamed in pain as their eyes burned, but she recovered faster, and it gave her time to roll out from beneath him. 

Still gripping the sword- no easy task, as it was nearly half her own size- Guinevere groped blindly toward the door. She hadn’t heard them relocking it after Mordred entered.

If she could run fast enough, she was free. The first of Mordred’s men to try and stop her was Bertholt, whose eyes grew wide upon seeing Guinevere with Excalibur.

“The sword- it works after all-”

“Scream like your poor Gwen,” she said, and though it took every ounce of her strength she swung the sword. It was a clumsy swing as she could hardly lift the weapon, only meant to keep Bertholt at bay, but when it had made its arc, he lay upon the ground with a deep gash in his chest that went right through his armor.

It would only be a short time before Mordred recovered his sight, and she knew he would be less foolhardy about approaching her than Bertholt had been. It didn’t matter how powerful her sword was if she could not make it connect before her enemy had sliced off her hand. Guinevere ran as fast as she could while still dragging the sword behind her.

The same monk who had given her confession gasped when he saw Guinevere with Excalibur.

“I never thought I’d see it in my life!” he said.

“Please,” Guinevere asked. “I need a horse. Tell them I held you at swordpoint if they find out. Go as quickly as you can, please!”

Holding Excalibur made her feel feverish and angry, and she somehow knew the sword was pulling her toward its master. Had Mordred felt it, too, and lied about it?

As the monk helped her strap Excalibur to her side and clamber up onto one of the knights’ horses, she prayed the sword’s pull would be enough to guide her.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Vanquished Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22352047) by [morethanprinceofcats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morethanprinceofcats/pseuds/morethanprinceofcats)




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